“But the Cimitario?” Rodrigo knew by instinct the crucial importance of the black cone.
“The Cimitario is taken by the Imperialists!”
Driscoll did not forget, however, the nearer contest, and as the Mexican grew frantic, he was the more coolly indifferent.
“Max has everything his own way now,” he added soothingly. “He can either evacuate, or go around on the north side and thrash Escobedo.”
But the Grays were clamoring for action. “By cracken, Din, hurry up there!” yelled Cal Grinders.
Driscoll raised his palm, waving the fingers for patience. He scanned the plain again. The Imperialist ranks were breaking. Hungry men rushed on the besiegers’ camps, snatching untouched breakfasts. The townsmen poured out among the uniforms, and darted greedily in every direction. The llano was alive with scurrying human beings. Driscoll could well wait for the psychology of Republican defeat on Don Rodrigo, since at the same time he awaited the effects of victory on a starving army. The Grays fretted, but they knew their colonel was never more to be depended upon than when his blood grew cold like this.
“If,” Driscoll observed pleasantly to the Mexican, “Escobedo isn’t already making tracks for San Luis––”
It was the last straw. The patriot brigand jerked off his sombrero and flung it to the ground. He gestured wildly over the plain, and he gestured in the American’s face. He choked on words that boiled up too fast.
389“You–you–traitor!” he spluttered. There was actually froth on his lips.
“We haven’t,” Driscoll reminded him with exceeding gentleness, “settled this other yet,” and again he nodded to the coach.